


Cute Cowboy Cookies and Lemonade

by BabyChocoboAlchemist



Category: Story of Seasons: Trio of Towns, 牧場物語つながる新天地 | Story of Seasons
Genre: Family Feels, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gay, Gay Male Character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Homosexuality, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyChocoboAlchemist/pseuds/BabyChocoboAlchemist
Summary: “I really don’t know,” came a musical, warm voice, followed by a chuckle. “I guess I just wanted to look after you myself. Not doingthatbad of a job, am I?”------------------------------Arlet, Westown’s newest farmer, finds an unconscious postman in the middle of a scorching hot day. It’s the hottest day on record for Westown, so the young farmer wastes no time in carrying Wayne back home. Wayne wrestles with nightmares and insecurities as feelings flare, electric longing and warmth rising to the surface as Arlet looks after him. Will Westown’s postman, known for having throngs of female fans, embrace his feelings for another man? Is confessing anything to Arlet ever going to be an option?(Otherwise known as ‘I’m using the hottest year on Arizona’s record to write a piece inspired by the Summer heat, and I hope I give at least one person something to enjoy’.)
Relationships: Male Farmer/Wayne (Trio of Towns), Wayne & Male Farmer, Wayne/Male MC
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Cute Cowboy Cookies and Lemonade

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for coming! I’m glad you’re here. I hope this gives you something to smile about during these dark, crazy times. As I’m living in Arizona, and the state is currently on fire in so many ways, I thought I would let the heat inspire me.
> 
> So this started off as a small idea, and ended up ballooning into something that’s over 2,000 words. I wrote it not with the protagonist at the center, but with Wayne at the center, as he feels like the ‘Kairi’ of Trio of Towns to me, and he’s the bachelor I’m pursuing in my own save file. I feel like many write Wayne off as a flirty playboy with the worst intentions-I hope this helps someone to like Wayne at least a little more.
> 
> The farmer in this piece, Arlet, was named after a brand of apple, so I made him into a fruit farmer (that’s also into essential oils). Arlet is the male player character with brown hair and green eyes. As for the details of his appearance, I’ll leave them up to your imagination.
> 
> This entire piece was written to ‘Lillie’s Theme’, ‘Lillie’s Theme Version 2’, ‘Seafolk Village-Night Theme’ and ‘Heahea City-Night Theme’ from Pokemon Sun and Moon.
> 
> Please enjoy. Thank you for being here!

_His chest, arms and legs are heavy with the night that refuses to end. He scrambles for air, clutching his throat, but air is adamant on evading him. Searching for any sign of light proves to be a futile exercise as the air grows heavier, crushing him from within, making it difficult to even stand. He is in a place like no other, but at the same, it is a place he recognizes as well as he recognizes his own name._

_He calls out for help, but his voice can’t possibly be reaching anyone because the space he’s in is crushing everything. There is no Frank or Megan. Arlet isn't anywhere near him, either. Darkness permeates everything, swallows everything. There are voices, but they’re all the wrong ones; voices telling him he’s not good enough, voices telling him that he isn’t worth their time, voices telling him that he might as well disappear because he’s just a waste of space. He keeps calling out for help, but the darkness inside of him and around him has succeeded in incinerating him._

_He wanders through a city of darkness and memory, heart racing, choking, everything within him aching feverishly. He feels as though he’s drowning, despite being on his feet. He runs, runs and runs, hoping to find even just one familiar face, but they’re all gone, having been replaced by the darkness that continues to swallow him. And the voices-they just won’t stop. They keep yelling, shouting at him. Breathing becomes even more difficult by the second, and he’s sinking deeper and deeper into the earth, despite all of the running he’s doing. He has to escape but it hurts, hurts to breathe, hurts to try, hurts to reach. But then-_

_A different voice pours into each crevice. A voice he recognizes. A soft, soothing, gentle voice. Much different from the voices pouring through the cracks. He stops and begins to smell lavender. Citrus, too. It has to be orange. And his head is settled against something just as gentle as the voice. Cool, too. The darkness he’s lost in is unbearably hot, but his head is now resting against something that’s comforting beyond words. And the other voices stop. There’s no more scorn, no more disappointment scorching the dark earth and its walls. There’s someone close, someone he recognizes, and it’s-_

“Ah. You’re _finally_ awake. Nice to see you, Wayne.”

Arlet. A sanctuary made of the afternoon’s glow and patience. 

Light slammed into the postman’s skull with a vengeance, but it meant he was no longer imprisoned in a realm of deafening silence. Through the light he caught sight of a young farmer’s face, one gentle and cheerful, welcome after a long nightmare. His eyes flutter, trying to capture everything around him, trying to assure himself he was safe, but thankfully, Arlet provided him with all of the assurance he needed. “Slow down,” the brunette urged him, patting his forehead with something. What was it? Ah-a cloth. A cool, damp cloth that was lightly blessed with a comforting fragrance. Smelled very much like Arlet himself, like the earth and stars. Not only that, but he was in Arlet’s _bed._ The very same soft, cooling place that cradled Arlet as he slept.

Arlo scolded him, but his voice wasn’t anywhere near angry. It was, instead, aglow with compassion. Kissed by a burst of sunshine and playfulness. “Don’t be so quick to jump out of bed. You pushing yourself too hard is what got you into this mess in the first place.”

Wayne struggled to recover his voice as recent events erupted in his skull like meteor showers. The pain erupting inside of his skull prompted him to clutch the sides of his head-fortunately, Arlet settled his back onto the bed and settled the moist, citrus-scented cloth behind his neck. Pain continued to ripple through him as he remembered what sent him into a swirling vortex of darkness: the heat. The Summer heat. Pushing himself too hard on a route _must’ve_ caused him to collapse, and a certain brunette found him. Where did he collapse? Where was his mail bag? Did Arlet _carry_ him all the way back to-

“Your mail bag is over here,” the farmer assured him, showing him a familiar bag, lifting it off of a nearby countertop. “And don’t worry-you didn’t lose a single piece of mail. Your grandfather’s hat is right here, too. Now work with me here, and just _try_ to relax.”

Somehow, Wayne found his voice. The Goddess must’ve given it back to him. It sounded small, shaky and hoarse, not at all like his own, but at least he was able to produce words. “Where are we?” he asked, settling a hand on his forehead, shutting his eyes. Horror erupted on his face and consumed each of his words; there was no way a gentleman worth his salt would accept anyone ferrying him anywhere. Especially not on such a hot day. “By the Goddess, _please_ don’t tell me you carried me all the way home.”

Arlet’s voice was a welcome, warm melody against a relentless migraine and immense exhaustion. “Sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I _did_ bring you all the way home. And before you ask, no, you weren’t heavy. Goddess, there’d be no point in me being a farmer if I thought that. I carry oranges, apples and dogs all day long. Why not a friend?”

Probably because there was a difference of at least fifty pounds, if not more. Pushing that aside, Wayne focused on another concern: “I really wish you hadn’t gone all of that trouble, just for lil’ ol’ me. Why didn’t you just take me to Ford’s?”

The cloth is slowly removed from the postman’s neck for a moment, then is settled onto his forehead with an additional dose of coolness and lavender. “I really don’t know,” came a musical, warm voice, followed by a chuckle. “I guess I just wanted to look after you myself. Not doing _that_ bad of a job, am I?”

The cowboy’s response was immediate, faint, frantic. “Not at all. Can’t tell you how-” But then talking became impossible, made so by the thunder and lightning that thrashed around inside of his skull. His hands returned to the sides of his head in a rush, followed by soft groans because by the Goddess, the pain was overwhelming. But then something followed that was just as powerful: the light scent of lavender and orange, accompanied by a moist towel mopping his forehead, and a song. It was impossible to make out the words, but there were visions of Spring, visions of daybreak and stardust soothing places his migraine had ravaged. “Sorry you’re not feeling okay,” Arlet told him once he brought his song to an end. “This heat has _everyone_ and _everything_ on edge. Glad I decided to become a fruit farmer. Anyway, you’re going to have to take it easy for a while, superstar. There’s _no_ going back out there for you. Not for a few hours.”

What about the mail? The mail couldn’t wait. Neither could Arlet’s fields. Or his animals. Time didn’t wait for anyone or anything. Horror and pain distorted the postman’s face as he tried to find his words again, wanting the other to go back to his fields and fruit and flowers because taking care of him would be such an inconvenience. Especially with the sun beating down so hard on Westown. Surely some part of his farm needed some sort of attention. Surely-

“And before you ask, I’ll take care of the mail. Once I know you’ll be okay on your own. I’ll even go ask Ford to come over and look after you, since you have no faith in my medical skills.” Arlet’s voice lost its teasing edge, adopting a much more gentle sheen. “Can you sit up for me? I’d like you to try some of my lemonade.”

Lemonade. Made by none other than Arlet himself. He _was_ a fruit farmer, after all, which meant that drinking some would mean drinking something Arlet made with his own hands. His hands. Hands that lovingly tilled the earth and watered so much delicious produce. Hands that nurtured a farm with all of the love and care in the world. The very same hands that apparently carried him all the way back to Sunshine Farm. Everything about that made Wayne’s heart about a thousand miles a second, but turning down the lemonade would be inexcusably rude, plus it was blistering hot outside. And what harm was there in lemonade, anyway? A nice, soothing, sweet drink made by none other than-

Arlet settled his head against his chest, making the postman’s heart race a thousand and one miles a minute, then lifted something to his lips. Beaming, brilliantly beautiful green eyes smiled at him as the most cooling, medicinal drink crept into his lungs, soothing and alive with the tastes of Summer. “Looks like it’s a success,” the young farmer chirped. “Awesome. Hope it makes you feel better.” He gently pressed the cup into his friend’s hands and watched as the postman took a couple more sips, making sure Wayne didn’t inhale it because it _was_ hot and he had a tendency to rush around a little too much.

With a face red from the day’s heat and embarrassment, Wayne set the cup down. “It was mighty tasty,” he admitted and felt it was inexplicably weird, being able to talk, considering his heart was racing at the speed of sound. “But I’m _real_ sorry you have to go through so much trouble, just for me.”

Arlet frowned. “For the record, I don’t like the way you’re using the word ‘just’. I’m not ‘just’ going through all of this trouble ‘just’ for you. No one told me to carry you all the way here. Like you said, I could’ve just dropped you off at Ford’s, but we all know inconveniencing him is a crime and I _wanted_ to look after you. Plain and simple. But now that you’re here…” He settled himself on his bed, comfortably next to Wayne, making sure he’s not intruding on the other’s space even though the postman is in his bed, in his home. 

“I have to ask. I’ve been worried about you for a few days. Finding you this afternoon was pretty much the nail in my coffin. Wayne, are you okay?”

Light and recent memories crash into the cowboy’s skull yet again with fiery vengeance. He grimaced while remembering, remembering how their last conversations were clipped, hurried, all thanks to a postman that never wanted to worry anyone. Frank’s nephew, on several occasions, expressed concern for a heavily occupied Wayne, but was always brushed off. Arlet may have had a lot to do with everything, but he wasn’t the source of the postman’s _old_ wounds. “And if you tell me you’re fine, you’re never getting another chocolate cookie out of me,” Arlet threatened, his voice stern but soft, eyes flashing with quiet wildfire.

“I’m about to perfect my recipe, too. I may even name my cookie in your honor-Chocolate Cowboy Cookie. So don’t-what’s so funny? Are you laughing at my brilliance?”

“I’m sorry, but-”

Another frown erupted on the brunette’s face. “Don’t apologize, just tell me what’s on that mind of yours. And for the record, I’m _really_ glad you’re laughing.”

“Th’ name you just came up with,” Wayne confessed amidst laughter, his heart all the while doing a round of somersaults because they were so close, close enough to touch, close enough to reach out and dream with each other, and Arlet was just so _warm._ “You can’t do any better than _that?_ Chocolate Cowboy-”

“How _dare_ you,” the young farmer scowled, pretending to be thoroughly offended but thoroughly relieved, happy to see the postman was feeling a little better. Better enough to keep on laughing. “Fine, what about this? Cowboy Cocoa Cookies?”

“Now yer not even tryin’ to come up with a good name!”

“Look, if you’re going to laugh at me, we’re done here,” Arlet pretended to snarl, folding his arms, beaming even more over the sight and sound of a laughing Wayne. And, thank the Goddess, he didn’t apologize again. “I’ll give it one more shot, though. This name should meet with your approval. How about _Cowpoke Cookies?”_

“Please, for the love of all this is holy, just stop,” Wayne groaned, setting his back against the farmer’s bed while shutting his eyes. “Sorry, but y’ain’t doin’ nothin’ but makin’ my headache _worse.”_

Arlet bopped the end of the postman’s nose, then rose to his feet, triumph giving his face a radiant glow. “All right, Cute Cowboy Cookies it is!”

“Now where in tarnation did _that_ name come from?”

“From _you,”_ the farmer replied, nodding, thoroughly proud of his creation. “Weren’t you paying attention? I said I was naming my cookies after you, didn’t I? And it’s perfect. You’re just as adorable as a puppy, and ‘Adorable Cowboy Cookies’ just doesn’t roll off the tongue, so ‘Cute’ it is. But you aren’t getting a single crumb off of me if you don’t tell me what’s been going on.”

Arlet was on his feet but he was still close, still close enough to reach out and touch. Everything in Wayne’s body screamed at him to come clean, to let the other know he was in dire need of someone to listen to him, but at the same time, everything in his body screamed at him to keep it all secret because the farmer had _enough_ to deal with, and it wouldn’t be at all gentlemanly to burden him with his worries or fears. Fortunately, the Goddess saw fit to send someone to the farmer’s door-and it was none other than Frank. The older farmer’s voice was shrill with concern-he must’ve caught wind of the younger farmer carrying the postman back.

“Arlie, you in there? You ‘n Wayne okay?”

The brunette patted Wayne’s forehead and rushed to the front door. Frank barreled through a moment later, his face aglow with worry. “Came as soon as I could,” he admitted breathlessly, always a picture of care and compassion. He then looked right at the bedridden cowboy. “Carried you all the way back here, he did, dear lil’ Arlie,” he explained, nodding. Shyness broke out on the younger farmer’s face, growing even more electric as his uncle went on. 

“Bridal-style, too. Hadn’t seen such an adorable sight in all my life! ‘N I hope yer feelin’ at least a little better. I know Arlie’s pretty handy when it comes to’ lookin’ after folks.”

Far from fine, with a face as red as a rose, Wayne replied with a slightly bowed head. “Feelin’ little better, thank you kindly,” he replied, even though it was a complete and utter _lie_ thanks to the thought of a certain farmer carrying him back to his farm. Like a bride. His migraine had gone down a little, and he was a little more focused on desperately wanting more of Arlet’s lemonade, but the thought of a certain brunette taking such great care of him-

Back to the present. Arlet was asking Frank to summon Ford, uncomfortable with leaving his patient’s side. There was an abundance of apologies, because Frank had his own farm to run, but Ford _was_ Westown’s doctor and a certain someone decided to pass out from heat stroke. “Don’t ‘chu two young ‘ungs worry about a thing,” Arlet’s uncle beamed at them, tipping his hat towards them. He didn’t seem to be bothered at all by the request.

“I’ve got no problem askin’ the good doctor to make his way over here. No worries, now-he’ll be over in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”

“Be careful out there, Uncle Frank,” Arlet gently urged, tugging on the other’s sleeve. “As you can see-” he added, indicating Wayne with a hand. “It’s not really cool out there. And you’re almost as bad as he is, when it comes to overworking yourself.”

“Don’t be silly, buttercup, I’ll be just fine! Just gimme a moment ‘n I’ll be right back, with the doctor himself.”

The door to Arlet’s farm was closed in a heartbeat, with Frank racing towards Ford’s office. The young brunette sighed, slumping over a little. “Makes me think I should become a doctor myself,” he groaned softly. “Feel like I’ve got a business looking after people that don’t take care of themselves.” And on that, he whirled around on Wayne, cutting him off before he could utter even a single syllable as a counter-attack: “Say something and I swear you won’t see another cookie.”

Wayne changed course. “Are you _sure_ you’re all right, handlin’ the mail? You’ve done enough fer me already, Arlet.”

“I sure am. I mean, I’m no superstar like you are, but I’ll give it my all. I just don’t want _you_ doing it. Not today. You need to rest, and the heat’s not dying down. Looks like the rest of the day is going to be a scorcher.” Arlet then, much to the postman’s delight, gave his friend more lemonade. “I’ll take care of the mail once Uncle Frank and Ford come back. In the meantime, you’ve got to answer my question. At least give me _something_ of an answer. If you ever want another cookie out of me, you’ll tell me at least a little something about what’s bothering you.”

The cowboy chuckled, the sound reminding Arlet of wind chimes and rustling waters. “You sure are heavy into the business of blackmail, ain’t cha? Fine, I’ll tell ya. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.” Arlet being one of those things, but that fact of life would remain out of the conversation. For how much longer, Wayne didn’t know, because Arlet was so close, so worried and radiant, with green eyes made of pine and gentle brushes of moonlight. “It’s tough sometimes, y’know,” Wayne admitted, hand over his rapidly beating heart, hoping to somehow silence it. “Being away from my folks ‘n all. Ridiculous, I know, bein’ a grown man ‘n all, but...it’s there, y’know. The hurt. Wishin’ I could see ‘em ‘n all. Can’t help but think that maybe...maybe I just ain’t good enough fer ‘em. Maybe I never was, and never will be. That’s why...that’s why things are the way they are.”

Arlet leaned in towards him, face aglow like a forest of fireflies, brushed by the night’s calm. “Stop me if I’m hitting too close to home, but don’t they write to you?”

“Yeah, they do, but...sometimes I can’t help but wonder, y’know? Like maybe I did somethin’ to ‘em to make ‘em stay so far away from me. Then it hurts, not bein’ able to remember ‘em, but...maybe they wouldn’t _want_ me to remember ‘em. Maybe they think it’s better this way. That’s why I try so hard at everything I do. I don’t ever wanna be forgotten by anybody.”

The brunette’s voice left behind no doubt. “You won’t be. That’s a fact. Nothing about you will _ever_ be forgotten. You’re amazing, Wayne- _everything_ about you is amazing. I won’t ever forget you. None of the others will either. I swear, on my farm’s honor, you’ll never be forgotten.” 

That wasn’t it, though. There was something else-how Arlet made his heart perform a dozen cartwheels and fifty somersaults with just a simple smile, with just a few words and a touch of gold. At that very moment, everything inside of Wayne began to flutter, for the kindness pouring out of the farmer was just too much, too much to comprehend, too much to accept as reality. It was soothing and exciting, frightening and refreshing all at once-a sweet rush of adrenaline and medicine. He had to keep what he was feeling hidden but couldn’t, because the farmer with eyes of pine and moon was kind enough to have it all pouring out of him, despite fear, despite not feeling like he’d ever be worth Arlet’s time. 

Could he, though? Could he really give the other additional insight into what his mind was bogged down with? What if Arlet wasn’t interested in men? What if Arlet saw him as nothing more than a good-for-nothing playboy that was only interested in toying with women? Being friends was one thing, but-

“You okay? Sorry if I got a little intense back there. I know your migraine’s been a nightmare and a half. But you thinking we’ll forget you-and I don’t even want to get started on your _parents.”_

Wayne smiled, hand over his heart, the look on his face definitely bittersweet and not at all reassuring. “I was just thinkin’ about how happy I am to have you as a friend. Now I gotta ask _you_ somethin’. Mind sellin’ me some of that lemonade of yours?”

“Sell? You _just_ said we’re friends, but you want me to _sell_ you some lemonade?”

The postman frowned, sensing an oncoming tidal wave. “But y’gotta business t’ run’, don’t ‘cha? I don’t wanna just _take_ from ya!”

“That’s it-no more cookies. Ever.”

“But-”

“Nope, we’re done. That’s it. Sorry, Wayne, but you’re on your own.”

“That ain’t fair! You said as long as I told you what was botherin ‘me, we wouldn’t get to this point!”

Arlet was untouched by the plea. “My cookies, my rules.” And, as if on cue, the door to his farm’s entrance was opened yet again. Wayne winced, sadness striking his heart like a volley of rocks, as a doctor and an older farmer made their entrances, wanting Arlet to himself for just a few more minutes. But another conversation would have to come at a later time. Arlet was explaining something to Ford-most likely everything that had led to Wayne ending up in his bed-and shouldering the postman’s mail bag. Ford was frowning-of course he was-pawing his forehead with a finger, going through ways to care for a patient with heat stroke, with Frank edging his way back towards the door with a broad smile. Arlet’s uncle waved merrily at them, heartily wished Wayne well and urged the postman to come to him if he ever needed anything in the future, rain or shine. Knowing Wayne was in the best hands, Frank took off towards his own farm, with Arlet close behind. 

The young farmer encouraged Ford to use whatever he needed from the farm, nothing being off limits. “Just be sure to remind Wayne he’s never getting another cookie from me,” he teased. “I’ll give him some lemonade. I’ve got all kinds-blueberry, strawberry, even apple lemonade. But no more cookies.” Before disappearing, Arlet tossed a mischievous smile at the postman, then closed the door behind himself. Ford, left alone with a visibly anxious Wayne, sighed.

“You must’ve done something to anger him. Which is a rather odd conclusion to come to, considering he left out of here with the intention of completing your route. Astonishing little creature, our Arlet is.”

Ford then whirled around on the cowboy, intent on taking care of business. “He left me in your care, and I intend on making him proud. Never will I perform below a friend’s standards. Now, if you don’t mind, please relieve yourself of your clothing.”

Wayne turned rose red, already flustered from carrying feelings that should forever remain hidden. Ford had just said his purpose was to meet a friend’s standards, if not exceed them, but for that particular friend, he wasn’t doing anything but pouring salt into open wounds. By the Goddess, Ford needed just a little more _tact_ when it came to someone’s feelings. “Mind tellin’ me _why?_ Y’ain’t makin’ me into one o’ yer experiments, are ya?”

“Not at all. I just plan on preparing a bath for you. Arlet _did_ grant me free use of his home, so I shall use the facilities as I see fit. And to properly treat heat stroke, one must counter the symptoms with water. I would recommend you taking an afternoon swim, but your condition makes it impossible for me to enforce that recommendation.”

“I don’t even wanna know what yer doin’ with that bag o’ yers,” Wayne admitted, clasping his hands together as his friend’s hands scrambled to find something in his medical kit. “But while you’re lookin’ for whatever it is you’re lookin’ for, mind if I tell ya somethin’? Just a little somethin’, Ford?”

“I’m all ears,” the nearby doctor replied, taking a few bottles out of the bag. “As a doctor, it is my duty to address all of my patient’s concerns.”

“Y’know Arlet?”

“I believe I do,” Ford groaned, still going through his medical kit. Silence followed his words for a moment, then another moment, and another moment. Once one too many moments went by, he slowly turned back around to face Wayne, whose head was slightly bowed, entire being emitting a cascade of emotions-

“Don’t tell me you’re…”

Their eyes met, the postman’s eyes aglow with panic and shyness, the doctor’s eyes flashing with concern and frustration. “Wait a minute,” Ford said breathlessly, eyes widening, mind returning to one of their most recent conversations. “When you came to me, and told me you bear feelings for someone, you were referring to _Arlet?”_

Wayne nodded, looking and sounding very much like someone that had just been caught red-handed. “Yep, I sure was.”

“That’s fantastic. I’m glad you _finally_ bear strong, solid feelings towards a potential companion. However, you’re clearly in distress and I’m afraid I don’t understand why. Do you not believe your feelings would be returned?”

“Nope, not even a little bit, because...well, what if he ain’t interested in menfolk like me?”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “Have you asked?”

“Well, no, but that ain’t an easy thing t’ ask!”

“You wouldn’t know because you haven’t _tried,”_ the doctor retaliated, approaching his patient with bottles in hand. “I don’t understand why you must always make things so complicated. It should be an easy topic of conversation to tackle, Arlet’s gender preference when it comes to companions. But since you intend on making even the most basic of tasks difficult, allow me to comfort you. You and I both know Arlet wouldn’t ever do or say _anything_ to hurt you. Which must be one of the reasons why you bear such strong feelings for him-his kind spirit. Am I right?” Wayne’s silence prompted him to continue.

“Exactly. If Arlet was the kind of individual that basked in the pain of others, I’m certain you’d bear no interest in pursuing a romantic relationship with him. But he is kind and compassionate, passionate about his work and considerate towards others. If you think he’d inflict incurable damage upon the bond you share, for any reason, you are sadly mistaken. Now why don’t you give our friend a _little_ bit of credit and tell him the truth, hm?”

Wayne raised his eyebrows at Ford, worry meshing with relief, happiness and gratitude. There was a question he was afraid to ask, but the doctor was forcefully steering their conversation into an encouraging direction. “You don’t mind me havin’ feelin’s fer another _man?”_

“Of course I don’t. I’m actually _relieved_ by your choice of companion. Arlet isn’t one of your hyperactive, incessantly obnoxious fans, so I’m pleased. Now, for the last time, take off your clothes. I’m not going to wait around all night for you to allow me to prepare a bath.”


End file.
